


Storyteller.exe

by MischiefJoKeR



Series: Jimlock Tumblr Prompts [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Captivity, Computer Viruses, Ficlet, Fuck Or Die, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Restraints, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1584014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MischiefJoKeR/pseuds/MischiefJoKeR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The computer virus is about to wipe out all records of individual identities, unless Sherlock does something. Luckily he can deduce what Moriarty would like to gain from this exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storyteller.exe

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt "67%" from a tumblr prompt by anonymous.

In truth, bombs and the like didn’t usually contain timers. The computer monitor didn’t have a timer, instead, it had a progress bar. The slowly filling, horizontal bar of dashed lines and a sickeningly sweet shade of blue was displayed on the monitor and nothing else of importance around it. Excluding the title of the prompting window, which read “STORYTELLER.EXE SENDING…” 

The Storyteller case. Really it should hve been obvious that the consulting criminal had his fingers in so many sorts of pies, even basement operations like this. It began when a college student was found dead, sliced with a precision implement, and left in a junkyard with ancient scrap metal and machines. Now the body just led Sherlock here, without his phone (not that the cement basement of the place, uncommon enough as it was, would allow for service) and Scotland Yard chasing a suspect on teh other end of town. Meanwhile, the henchmen were sending corrupt files to sanctioned buildings. The hospitals, banks, schools, and even Parliament. Everything documented on a computer system would be split open and poured into this new software, corrupting all stored data in the London area. 

In truth, even that sounds like a work of fiction. A computer virus that could be sent out and delete all the data of people. No more birth certificates, bank statements, medical records, credit debt. All of it, gone. A clean slate where no one could have a for-sure identity anymore if the Storyteller had anything to say about it. It’d replace names, even. 

"Dear brother Mycroft can be kept in the records as Bill Pile for all I care, it’ll be all he has for identification. Storyteller is making the rules, the characters, the pawns." Sherlock sneers as Moriarty, across the room from him, explains. "And you, dear Sherlock…" He trills, kicking at the ground with his bespoke shoes. "It can make it so you never exist…just a name whispered in the wind..but you won’t have anything. Like you were never conceived. Keep you all to myself, write you up a new story."

Moriarty is taking more steps towards him. Sherlock’s lips press into a thin line as his hands clench the arms of the chair he was strapped onto when he broke into the house. He hadn’t expected the mastermind in person. 

"That’s your plan? Just to make people start over. Find a joke so they create new names. There’s a simple work around, anyways."

"The chaos of it all though. I can just taste it." Moriarty hummed his approval, as if drunk off a scent not wafting through the dank air of the cellar. "I don’t care how or if they recover. I just want that panic. And the only one’s that will know won’t even have any proof." Sherlock’s eyes remain locked on the deep pits of Jim Moriarty’s eyes, pupils enlarged with glee, as he smooths his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. 

"I will have proof, obviously. This is quite the Bond moment."

"Been sticking with Johnny boy too long, it seems…I wonder how I can fix him. Maybe set him back up to be enlisted again? Something nasty at least."

"He’s discharged."

"He was, my dear. But not in this fairy tale.” Jim’s voice takes on that low, smooth like honey and burning like whiskey tone. “I’ll ruin him, first.”

"I was under the impression this game was between you and I."

"Oh, it is. You’ll just stay down here and watch, for a while anyways. I’d like to show you around, give you the grande tour. I can take you back to my place," Jim chuckles, his perfectly plucked eyebrows raising in suggestiveness. Sherlock averts his eyes only for the moment to look to his left at the computer screen. It’s left there just to always be in his line of sight. Fifty percent. 

A clammy hand grasps his sharp jaw and tugs it forwards. His eyes meet with the deep russet brown, barely visible with the hellish depths of darkness already covering the irises of Moriarty’s eyes. He’s enjoying this. “You’ll love it, dear. I’ve got acres for days, places to be no one’s even heard of, and no one ever will. Writin’ our own story across the world while no one’s the wiser.”

"That’s what you suggest? Corrupting the nation’s data so you can spirit us away to the country?" Sherlock finds his tone remaining steady, though he has the urge to roll his eyes. The mighty have fallen—for what purpose would this be a part of his plan? His brows cinch together as he looks back at the criminal, looming over him, and they twitch just a fraction. Ah… "Seems the mighty have fallen, dear Jim."

"Quite, as they let themselves be restrained to a chair." 

"Pupils dilated, sweaty palms, change in pigmentation over face and neck, headier breathing." Sherlock murmurs, hardly loud enough for his own ears to hear. "You’re enjoying this."

"I do love my job." Jim quirks a smile, showing his perfectly aligned teeth. 

"You’d be willing to make an arrangement to cancel the process." Sherlock turns his chin up, attempting to pull away from the warm palm, but Moriarty’s fingers follow him and continue to cup his jaw. 

"Would I?"

"An exchange." 

"Of what sort?"

"Cancel the program, erase it, delete the Storyteller. And spirit me away." Sherlock keeps his voice steady even as Jim barks something between a laugh and a giggle.

"I could do that right now, no exchange needed."

"You aren’t the sort to take upon a partner that is opposed to sexual behaviors. You prefer giving orders and having them obeyed. Stating your desires out loud gives you your conclusion but you want them fulfilled whether such statement was said in passing or in demand. You want to hide me away from my brother and John and rewrite me. That is the exchange you’ll take and I’m offering it." 

Jim, for a moment, simply stared at the restrained detective. Once the moment passed, he let loose a chuckle, the dimples at the corner of his mouth showing in the low lighting. “I’ll need that in writing, my dear…even though I much prefer hearing you say it.”

"Business procedure, as usual." Sherlock tugged at a wrist, still latched onto his chair. Jim hummed, looking down at the detective, even with Sherlock sitting he was barely taller than him. With a few seconds pause, the whirring of the computer running behind them filling the dead air, Moriarty withdrew a knife from his belt.

"Now you trust me to not run away?" Sherlock said as one wrist was cut free, ignoring the wince as the criminal was not careful enough to avoid leaving a cut. 

"You and I both know the other is a man of their word." Jim looked at Sherlock from underneath his lashes as he cut the last strip of binding from his wrist. Sherlock made no effort to move, drumming his fingers on the chair as Jim hovered in front of him, nearly in the space between his knees. 

"The program," Sherlock stated as Jim’s eyes only darkened and he made no move. Jim hummed, biting at his bottom lip. 

"Seal the deal first, darling." Sherlock forced a look of defiance on his face as he lifted his eyebrows at the criminal, stopping him from moving. The thought hit him that it was intentional, and rather traditional, what the criminal intended. Close enough to a blood oath as it could be. Escaping would take some time, if possible. The detective rose to his feet the ends of his jacket brushing over Moriarty’s torso, and the two were hardly a breath away, minus the height advantage in Sherlock’s favor. Jim’s eyes were boring into his own, holding him spellbound and unable to do little else but lean down to see them on equal level. 

He pressed his lips to Jim’s reddened and chapped ones. He’d been biting them, either for effect or in his glee. Sherlock moved to pulled his shoulders back and stand tall, when those clammy fingers cupped his cheeks and held him down. His mouth was plundered within a heartbeat, the beats getting faster as a breath shuddered out of him when Jim’s tongue snuck into his mouth. Sherlock’s hands acted of their own accord, raising up to push the criminal back but simply curled around the lapels of the cheaper but no less impressive dress wear covering Jim’s figure. Jim’s kissing was vicious, filled with tongue and teeth and somehow making fire burn deep inside the transport. 

Sherlock’s internal clock timed out. Minutes could have passed before Jim let his tongue lap at Sherlock’s swollen and slick lips, allowing an intake of breath. The oxygen flooded his system and left him panting, high on the element and feeling much to warm in the dank cellar. His hands had moved to Jim’s waist, as as he caught his breath he had enough sense to glance back at the computer screen. Pushing his slender hand into the criminal’s pocket elicited a jolt underneath his palm, but the loading bar halted as the detective found the remote to cancel the program. Leave it to Jim to keep it on his person. Almost as though this was his expected outcome. 

Regardless of intentions, be they distracting the Holmes brother from the system or leaving it within easy reach, the pixels on the screen read “67% SENDING CANCELLED…”. Sherlock shut his eyes as the criminal began biting at his throat, feeling the smirk even on his skin. Escaping would take some time, if possible. If wanted. If needed. But London could be safe at least for another day.


End file.
